


Reflection

by tripleleaf



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 17:39:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17667104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tripleleaf/pseuds/tripleleaf
Summary: A short fic for the prompt "reflection".





	Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> This is really short but I just wanted to post something :) Happy Lunar New Year to those who celebrate it!

Roger peered over John’s shoulders at the reflections in the mirror, invading his personal space and making it a little bit harder for him to do whatever it was he happened to be doing, as always. “Wow. You have nice arms.”

“Why, thank you,” John replied, his voice muffled by the toothbrush and foam and spit in his mouth. Meanwhile, Roger was on the third step of his daily routine, shaving, with the bottom half of his face covered in shaving cream and the upper part of his hair all messed up. He was still staring at the mirror and constantly adjusting the angle of his razor-holding arm.

“Searching for the most efficient shaving angle, eh?” John teased. He loved teasing Roger, who did so many weird things that it had become a rather adorable trait.

“No, it’s just… my arms. They’re not anywhere near as ripped and lean as yours. Look! I thought drumming was the more physically demanding activity. Holding the bass doesn’t take that much effort, and you hardly ever work out, do you?” Roger demanded.

John washed his mouth and rinsed his toothbrush clean under the tap. “Hold you arm still, stupid, you’ll cut yourself. I fancy you better when you don’t ask such pointless questions. You look  _fine_.”

“Eh. I was just complimenting, you know,” Roger tapped his razor out and finally went on to finish his shave. John didn’t see why Roger should feel so conscious about his appearance (nor why Freddie had to have so many pairs of shoes). He’d seen Roger wearing platforms or high-heeled shoes more often than not, fixing his hair so that it fluffed just the right amount, and asking everyone whether he should have that extra piece of chocolate cake because it was already tricky to squeeze his belly into tight leather pants (though he always did succumb to the appeal of the chocolate cake). All good. Nothing wrong with that.

“Wait… did you just say… Does that mean you  _do_  fancy me, then?”

“I’m late for work,” John muttered under his breath and quickly ran a comb through his curls (while purposefully angling his arms to make sure Roger saw how nice they looked). Then he left without another word.


End file.
